


The Pub

by CelestriaNebula



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sherlock, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestriaNebula/pseuds/CelestriaNebula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock spend a night at the pub with Greg and a few Yarders, and A drunk Sherlock dances in a way that's very endearing to his army doctor. </p>
<p>*Inspired by that gif of Benedict Cumberbatch doing the Thriller dance.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pub

**Author's Note:**

> Characters are not mine... Disclaimers disclaimers disclaimers. Just a bit of fluffy Johnlock I wrote a while ago.

# The Pub

"John..."

Silence. 

"John!"

Silence. 

"JOHN!"

"WHAT, Sherlock!?"

"Bored."

"For the thousandth time Sherlock, I know you're bored, you've been reminding me for the past two hours. Forgive me for not sympathizing, but I HAVE been suggesting distractions."

Sherlock didn't respond, brooding in his unhappiness. It seemed like a choice between two undesirable outcomes, the first being a night at the pub with Lestrade and a bunch of idiots from Scotland Yard, and the second being a period of time anywhere between several hours to several days being ignored by John, and the target of his irritation. Sherlock grimaced at the thought of the latter. He knew John couldn't stay mad at him forever. John was too loyal and affectionate of him for that, but he didn't fancy the idea. He enjoyed John's affection, though he'd never admit it. 

Sherlock suddenly leapt off the couch, crossed the room and disappeared into his room, slamming the door. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, thankful he could get perhaps a few minutes of peace with the newspaper and his tea before Sherlock returned. He had hardly finished browsing the headlines when Sherlock swept through the door again, now fully clothed.

Sherlock strode over to where his coat lay, strewn where he had left it the day before. He donned his scarf and shrugged on his coat before glancing up at John. John had returned to his paper, assuming Sherlock had invented something of his own to distract himself. 

"Come on John, Lestrade won't be at the pub all night, and I'm not going without you, you know I hate socializing." Sherlock finished buttoning his coat and pulled on his gloves, waiting for John, who stated at him blankly. "The pub, John, the one you mentioned earlier. I can't imagine why you want to go, but I suppose it's better than sitting in a silent flat."

John blinked at him before grabbing his shoes and jacket and following Sherlock into a cab. He felt a bit guilty for ignoring Sherlock, a man he knew needed constant distraction, but he was being irritating (as always) and it _had_ gotten him out of the house. 

After five minutes' silent cab ride, they arrived at the pub. Sherlock let out a silent huff of disappointment in Lestrade's choice of venue, but the soft "Dull..." that escaped his lips seemed to go unnoticed by John. The boys from the Yard sat at the back of the pub, and Sherlock had deduced both bartenders and three particularly loud, particularly drunk men watching a football match on the telly by the time he and John reached them. He put on a tolerable face for the Yard boys and did his deducing in his head. He was here for John, and therefore on his best behavior. Still, it was going to be a very long night. 

 

\----

 

"John..."

Three hours later, John excused himself from his conversation with a pretty redhead and looked over his shoulder at Lestrade.

"John you're not going to believe this."

John sent the redhead an apologetic glance before walking over to Lestrade, who stood near the rather large dance floor. The area was filled with an electric glow and rang with the din of the voices and music. The pub had become quite crowded, flooded with the crowd from the football game. John realized he hadn't seen Sherlock in quite a while and immediately became concerned. 

"Have you seen Sherlock?" John asked Lestrade. He just grinned and pointed toward the dance floor. The sight that lay before them was one that John wouldn't soon forget. 

Sherlock stood out on the dance floor, drink in his hand, moving to the beat of Michael Jackson's "Thriller." John had to assume he was dancing, but like everything about him, it could hardly be considered, well, usual. He had lost his jacket somewhere, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. John hoped the jacket was just at their table, it was one of Sherlock's favorites. John wondered if he was trying to do the "Thriller" dance, and wondered when (and why) he had learned it. 

"This is pure gold..." John murmured, reaching for his phone. He pulled up the camera, hoping there was enough light for a video. He started recording, grinning at Sherlock's drunk dancing, thinking, "Oh, you're going to regret this tomorrow, Sherlock..."

Sherlock spotted John and Lestrade and came over, leaving his empty glass on the bar. He continued dancing, every inhibition and ounce of haughtiness gone. It was so strange (though undeniably, fantastically amusing) for John to see Sherlock so relaxed. He laughed as Sherlock began to show off in front of the camera, acting more ridiculous than John had ever thought possible. 

"Now I know why you don't usually drink," John told him, and Lestrade chuckled. 

John stopped recording and put his phone away as the song was ending, and Aerosmith's "Don't Want to Miss a Thing" started playing. Sherlock's face lit up and he grabbed John's wrist, pulling him toward the dance floor. 

"John, dance with me!" Sherlock pleaded.

John resisted, glancing around at the number of people in the pub. "Sherlock, people will talk..."

"Please John..!"

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, momentarily mesmerized by a ring of blue-green brilliance around widened pupils and the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his wrist. After a moment savoring both sensations, John let himself be pulled onto the dance floor and into Sherlock's arms. He smiled, listening to Sherlock hum the melody, hoping the moment would last. 

Lestrade watched the two men, surprised at first, then grinning again before going back to the table to give them their moment. "You'd think one of them would have seen it coming," he thought to himself, chuckling at the irony. "All the rest of us did."

 

\---

 

Sherlock woke up slowly, fading into consciousness. Sleep... Why did he never enjoy sleep before? He was warm, comfortable... Oh that was why. There's no time for comfort when there were cases to be solved. His super efficient brain wasn't there to be idle. Daylight didn't dictate the hours Sherlock could think. 

He opened his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed, landing his feet in his slippers and facing the window. What he wasn't expecting was the blinding pain that shot through his skull, a disorienting lack of balance for the usually graceful man, and a throbbing that didn't stop when he snapped his eyes shut again and collapsed back down on the bed. And he couldn't understand the intense discomfort in his stomach, especially considering he never ate much. He needed a doctor.

"John... John!"

"Good morning, Sherlock. How are you feeling."

Though his eyes were screwed shut, Sherlock heard John try to hide the smile that crept into the corners of his voice as he set a cup of tea on Sherlock's bedside table. He opened his eyes a fraction to glance disapprovingly at John who stood over his bed with a smirk on his bright face. Sherlock grumbled at him and curled up, closing his eyes against the offending sunlight. 

"What happened last night," He muttered after a moment, steeling himself before attempting to sit up, or at least open his eyes again. Thankfully John had turned to shut the curtains. 

"You've got a hangover, Sherlock, if I've ever seen one." 

Sherlock didn't bother glaring at him; he didn't have the conviction, and he knew his tone would do well enough. 

"Yes, John, it's quite obvious that I have a hangover. My skills of deduction are quite undiminished. However, I regret to admit my memory of the night is a bit lacking. What happened."

"You're in a black mood," John chuckled. Even with a fantastic hangover, Sherlock was just as sharp as he always was. John was bit worried about the effects of alcohol on his high-functioning brain, but he appeared to be okay. "Though that's not unusual for you."

Sherlock didn't respond, siting against the headboard with his knees pulled up to his chest, eyes closed, sipping his tea. Thank God for John... he always made tea for Sherlock. John would continue his explanation if Sherlock waited. Anything that John found so amusing wouldn't be a secret for long. 

John finished straightening the curtains and turned back toward his best friend. His gaze softened as he watched Sherlock carefully sip the steaming liquid. In all the world, there was no one John loved more than Sherlock. He was a brother, a son, a father, his best friend, his partner and roommate... And yet, ultimately more than that. 

Right now Sherlock looked like a child, innocent and a bit helpless. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of John's eyes as he crossed the room and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. Sherlock opened his eyes, which accepted the semidarkness provided by the curtains, and glanced at John's hand on his shoulder before meeting his eyes. 

After a moment that was at the same time a bit too long and much too short, John spoke, "I'll make you some toast, yeah?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze again and returned to his tea, mumbling something that sounded like "Not hungry."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock," John chided, moving to leave the room. "You're not on a case, and you need to eat something if you don't want to vomit again." 

Again? Sherlock didn't like the sound of that. He supposed he had John to thank that he was relatively clean and in his own bed. John. It was always John. Sherlock let his thoughts wander his mind palace, in the wing devoted to his friends and family. John alone claimed several rooms. 

John returned with a plate of toast and jam and found Sherlock deep in thought, eyes unfocused, brow furled. He stared at him for a moment, wondering what had attracted Sherlock's attention this time, and if he should interrupt him. 

"Here you are, Sherlock. Toast and jam." 

Sherlock looked up at John, then eyed the offered plate. "What kind of jam?"

"Raspberry, of course, don't be daft." 

Sherlock smirked before accepting the plate gratefully. 

Sherlock's murmured thanks didn't go unnoticed by John, who was touched by Sherlock's unusual display of appreciation. Sherlock nibbled on his toast to John's satisfaction before asking for the third time,

"You never told me what happened."

John was surprised, then laughed. He had forgotten, to be honest. He was too distracted by a certain hungover sociopath... 

"If you really want to know, it might be easier if I showed you," he chuckled. Sherlock watched him go, hoping to get a satisfactory answer this time. He was never this patient, especially considering the hangover, but certain exceptions were always made for John. 

John returned with his mobile phone and sat next to Sherlock on the edge of the bed. He flipped through it until he found the video, then handed it over to Sherlock. Mere seconds later, John noticed Sherlock's barely concealed blush and grinned. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his own unusual movements, handing it back to John when the uncomfortable experience was over. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and focused on his toast again. "Did anything else happen that I should know about?"

"Well, you asked me to dance with you."

Shit, thought Sherlock, subtly searching John's face for signs of John's opinion of the experience. Finding little to go on, for once, he prompted him gingerly.

"And..?"

John didn't reply, but held Sherlock's gaze gently for a few moments. Then he reached out, taking the empty plate in one hand and resting the other on Sherlock's shoulder, and standing up, softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. Both men closed their eyes, holding on to the moment. Then John stepped back and looked at Sherlock again, meeting his tender gaze. 

"Go back to sleep Sherlock. You'll feel better if you do."

"John..."

"I'm serious Sherlock, bed. Doctor's orders."

That wasn't what Sherlock was referring to, but he let it go. He would have ages to talk to John later, preferably when his brain had returned to full capacity. He simply watched John move towards the door. 

"John... Thank you."

John smiled at his detective, closing the door softly behind him. Sherlock curled up under his covers, thinking only of his wonderful doctor as he drifted back into sleep.


End file.
